Shooting Sparrows
by Orinme
Summary: Small series. Little blips of a story just for fun. Sparrow/Reaver Yaoi Slash M/m. Post-spire. Fable 2. Reaver returns from his shady dealings and has some need of a certain silent hero's help. Oh, the possibilities.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

Im such a fable nerd. 8D –has played it seven times-

Anyway. VIOLA. A fable II fanfiction. And a gay one. Just a series of short snippets of 'Blade,' the hero who's name is actually Sparrow, and his good ole friend Reaver, the cocky arse of a Hero of Skill. Probably post-spire-wish. :3 And after Reaver gets back from the shady places he probably visited.

Also, this is a bit of history for my friend Ife about Sparrow and his post-Alana…affair? Im not sure what went on between Aaron and Sparrow. Er.

Reaver and Blade.

--w—

"And then I said, blimey, girl, you've plum fallen out of your blouse."

The men around the dashing young man laughed heartily, all eyes fixed on the relaxed figure talking amongst them. He was dressed sharply, with a red cloak and leather boots, from a fine gold clasp on his belt to silken shirt to suede vest. Even a gold pocket watch chain. His dirty blondish locks were swept neatly and handsomely stop his gorgeous face, teeth glinting in the dim tavern light.

"And then she said, as if innocent to the fact, oh, Reaver, have I really? Would you mind helping me fix this problem? Of course I would, I told her. And help her I did. All evening long." He sipped his wine from his goblet with a smirk, the men around him hailing him with praise. He barely noticed it though.

Again, green eyes drifted to a huddled figure on the other side of the tavern. A blond dog laid at the figures feet. Both the gold beads in black hair, and the dog, struck a familiarity chord, but for some reason he couldn't place it.

"I beg your pardon, but who's that over there," He drawled, never taking his eyes off the form so focused on his tankard. Then the face looked up.

He wore an old, ratty coat with a high collar that vary nearly reach his eyes. Reaver recognized it as an assassin's coat, though the sash about the man's waist was brown, not red and his hair was in a long tail over one shoulder. Suddenly, the handsome eyes shot over to meet Reaver's dead on, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They'd made eye contact so quickly it almost felt like a physical blow, and Reaver heaved to catch his breath.

"Tha's the hero of Albion," one man whispered. "T'aint a talker, that one. Goes by Blade."

Memories flooded Reaver's mind, and he almost beamed.

"Ah yes!" He thunked his goblet down and stood, adjusting his cape as he parted the blissfully ignorant group of men around him. One asked another if they should stop Reaver's advance, but none did. Better off that way.

As Reaver approached, the dog (Adam or Oral or some such) lifted his head, and his jowls, eyes dark. He fell into the seat across from the black-haired fellow, grinning charmingly at him.

"Hello hello, my dear /Sparrow/. How /have/ you been?"

The man just stared at him, one black brow lifting very slowly.

"…That good huh?" Reaver frowned, leaning forward to try and peek down into the absurdly high collar of the man's coat. Sparrow just leaned away, successful in keeping the lower half of his face covered. "I've been swell if you'd care to know." He looked disinterested in his finger nails for a moment, before looking back up. "Now, obviously so you're still not much of a talker." He smiled charmingly again. An itch for his pistol started when the brow just rose a bit higher, those cryptic blue eyes dancing with something like…amusement? "So how about I talk. Sound good?"

The dog made some kind of a 'huruff' sound, and laid his head back down.

Reaver looked idly over Sparrow's shoulder at the twisted almost root-like hand of the Hammerthyst, Sparrow's weapon of choice (much to his credit he was /very/ good with the giant gemstone), then back to those glittering blue eyes. "I seem to have stumbled upon a great deal of money, as it were, on my return to…glorious Ablion." He watched the eyes roll, and Sparrow sat back away from the table. One hand remained beneath the table, the other, Sparrow slung lazily over the back of his chair. Reaver took note of the warn and tattered condition of the leather gloves. He wondered exactly how much the great Hero of Albion had to do alone, while the other heroes were of on vacation. That thought was quickly swept away, and Reaver looked back to waiting, disinterested eyes. "And you were the man I happened to stumble into Westcliff to find. How pleasant, hmhm." He chuckled and waved a wench over, ordering himself another goblet of wine. "How convenient."

Sparrow's brow just raised slowly again, not amused. Reaver continued to stare after the bar wench. Briefly, Sparrow's eyes followed Reaver's gaze, then went back to him, brow lifting higher.

"I need your help, Hero." Reaver winced almost painfully, then looked at Sparrow again. "I do." He scowled when Sparrow's eyes went blank with skepticism. "No I really do, see." He leaned, tapping his index finger on the table. "My beautiful town, Bloodstone you know, it's…it's being cleaned up!" He waved his hand. Though Sparrow's expression didn't change, Reaver continued. "I know, it's awful. I need your help to flush out all the disgusting orderlies and help me make my town a paradise, will you?" He looked back up with the best puppy dog look he could muster. If possible, Sparrow's emotion dropped even further into total non-caring. "Oh, come on Sparrow." Reaver frowned deeper. "I'll offer you a large sum of money. Please? Just help me? I'll even throw a party, for you and I and, God forbid, Hammer and Garth…"

At the mention of the other two heroes, Sparrow seemed to perk and look interested once more. /Ah. Gotcha./

"I'll throw a party for the lot of us, if you help me." He grinned charmingly. "So will you?"

Sparrow watched him quietly for a while, before nodding and standing.

"Splendid! I'm very glad." Reaver stood as well, motioning. "My carriage just so happens to be outside. Come, come, let us talk shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry about the weird chapter mixings.

Hazzah, Parties. 8D

Silly Reaver, trying to charm Sparrow into talking.

--w—

"Mm. Thank you, Dalson." Reaver relaxed comfortably in his plush chair set in front of the study fire. He smiled softly as it crackled, Cocky mask slipping only briefly. Only briefly, he told himself.

He had donned a crimson smoking jacket and black silk pajama trousers, though his feet remained bare on his ottoman. The warm warmed the soles of them comfortably, and Reaver allowed himself a moment of solace, closing his eyes and savoring the rich taste of a foreign wine. He didn't notice the silent footsteps, but did suddenly sense a presence. His fingers curled quietly around the handle of the Dragonstomper who was tucked comfortingly against his leg, before opening an eye. Someone had this back to him, and he found himself staring.

It was obviously male and, obviously Sparrow, but, Reaver couldn't seem to really believe his mind telling him that. Without the heavy clothes and weapons, Sparrow looked so…adorable? Charming?

He was looking over Reaver's book collection (most of which, Reaver admitted he'd never bothered to read in his entire three hundred years), in nothing but a pair of graying linen pants that pooled at his feet. They had to be at least three inches to long. For the first time, Reaver realized how…short, Sparrow was. Was he even six foot?

Though his back was scarred in many places, it was soft, where the scar tissue wasn't, and sun kissed, muscles sinewy and strong beneath the skin. His hair was down and out of it's usual tail, fanning out across his back in a shiny black sheet, very nearly to the hem of his pants. He turned his head slightly, plucking off a tome and looking in interest. He was young, younger then Reaver had imagined, perhaps only barely gracing twenty one? No, no he had to be at least thirty…but why did he look so young? His features were sharp and oddly unmarred by scaring, with soft lips that seemed to have a constant, just barely there smile. Reaver wondered quietly to himself if Sparrow /ever/ removed those odd gypsy beads, but that was besides the point. Sparrow, the hero of Albion, looked positively ravishing. And, he smirked mentally, very ravish-able. Sparrow looked up at him then, eyes loosing their curious luster and falling dull again. That brow started lifting again in that most annoyingly slow fashion, and Reaver chuckled.

"No, no, please. Don't mind me, my dear." He grinned, taking another slow sip of his wine. "I'm merely enjoying the view." Sparrow stared at him a moment and, despite his thought he couldn't, Reaver smirked even wide behind his cup. Pink started to flood over Sparrow's cheeks and he turned away, putting the book up haphazardly and looking for another one (though, very distractedly, Reaver mused). "Mm. I'm sorry, should I have held my tongue?" He tore his eyes away and back to the fire, fingers uncurling on his pistol. He chuckled again. "You're a handsome man, Sparrow. That I can most defiantly assure you."

Reaver continued to watch Sparrow out of the corner of his eye. It was endlessly amusing, how permanently the blush seemed to stain Sparrow's ears. Eventually the young man found a suitable book and was silently gone from the room as suddenly as he appeared. 'Perhaps just as well,' Reaver thought quietly to himself. 'I'm not particularly sure how much longer I could have remained in my chair. Hm.' He ran his finger along the neckline of his smoking jacket, tugging gently. 'A bit warm under the collar again, Reaver. I wonder if Marisol is awake.' He smiled to himself and set his empty goblet down, before pushing himself up and standing. He adjusted his coat, grabbed his pistol, and bounded out of his study with a determination to get to his servant's quarters. 'I'm sure she is. If not, I'm sure she wont mind being woken up for this.'

--w—

Sparrow remained the in plush room Reaver had set up for him. In fact, he had originally planned to stay down by the water front in an inn. Reaver wouldn't hear it, apparently, and forced him to remain in the manor. Grant, Sparrow thought, the beds are far more favorable.

Next to him on the floor lay Alain, his friend and confident. The soft 'fwish fwish' of the retriever's tail against the carpet was a comforting sound as Sparrow read quietly. He smiled softly to himself, turning the page.

"He called me handsome."

Alain's ears perked and he lifted his head, looking up at his Master. Sparrow mused that Alain and Theresa (and his passed wife and son) were probably the only one's who had heard him speak (unless Hammer listened in). Reaver would have a field day.

He kept his voice quiet.

"Isn't that a low blow." He looked down, smiling slightly at the pup, who just panted and wagged his tail quicker. "It's not much of a compliment coming from a sod like him, is it?" He laughed softly. The laugh was abruptly cut off by a quiet shout of 'reaver!' from the room next door. Sparrow looked at the wall, some color sliding out of his face. It was silent again, before the lady's voice moaned again 'oh, yes!' Sparrow looked down at his canine companion, who looked up at him, before they both looked back at the wall. Eventually the silence in between the moans was filled with rhythmic little 'oh's and 'harder's. Sparrow just stared at the wall in absolute horror. Occasionally another cry of Reaver's name would punctuate her noises.

After a few minutes of this, Sparrow decided he suddenly had an innate desire to go walk the gardens.

So walk the gardens he did.

He donned his coat and tied the sash, though he folded the grand collar down, and slid into his travelling boots.

For a Pirate Lord who had been away for two years, Reaver had a gorgeous bounty of flowers in his courtyard. From marigolds to forget-me-nots to babies breath to everything in between. He leaned to smell some of them, others he merely fingered the silken petals. Eventually he wound his way around to the fountain in the center and smiled. It was three tiers high, with carvings of small cherubs. 'You have cherubs in your garden, Reaver?' He sat on the wide edge, running his hand along the marble and watching the water. Somewhere near by, Alain was bounding around after lightning bugs. A smile crept back onto Sparrow's face and he forced himself away from his reflection, watching his friend enjoy himself. This was, he admitted, a lot more fun than listening to Reaver's…rompings.

Despite their being alone, Sparrow continued to feel watch. He touched his pistol on occasion where it hid in his coat, eyes darting. He didn't think to look at the house, though. They had been in the garden long enough for Sparrow to begin to chill, but he didn't want to return before the bedroom beside his was…quiet.

"Enjoying my garden are we?" Reaver leaned on his window sill, chest still bare and hair tousled rather attractively. Sparrow looked up quickly, eyes narrowed a moment, before relaxing. Behind Reaver, his bedmate was quietly begging him to come back to bed, and Reaver looked over his shoulder briefly to scold her. "Quiet, woman, the men are speaking." She pouted at him, and he looked back out the window. "If you wanted something to do, Sp—"

His garden was empty. Reaver frowned, and thought for a moment he heard the door to the next room close, but shook his head of it.

"Alright alright, Marisol." He pulled his window shut and locked it, carrying the candle back to his bedside. He beamed at her, and she giggled as he scanned her naked form. "One more wouldn't hurt."

--w—

"Ah, well good morning, dear Sparrow." Reaver beamed, dressed again in fine silks and leather boots, hair swept up neatly. Sparrow wandered in groggily, hair hastily tied back in it's tail. Reaver was pleasantly surprised that Sparrow was without his coat this morning, wearing only a sleeveless black tunic of some cheap fabric, and a pair of tight pants, an orange sash with beaded tassels loose around his waist. Always something beaded, including those silly beads in the loose bangs in Sparrow's face. Such a gypsy, Reaver mused. 'Without the desire to steal, apparently.'

Despite Reaver's…cheerful greeting, Sparrow half collapsed into the chair across the table from him. He stared at the fine china plate with what Sparrow believed was, quite an intricate mean of fried eggs, bacon, some seasoned vegetables and wine, with great interest. However, something made him look up at Reaver questioningly.

"Pish posh, don't look at me like that old friend." One side of Reaver's mouth curled up in a cocky grin. "I wouldn't do harm to the Hero of Albion. And, if I did, most certainly not in such an undermined way as distorting his meals." As if to prove his point, he popped a large bit of his egg into his mouth, swallowing awkwardly, though with the same smile, and continued with his mouth half full. "See? Right as rain." He frowned slightly, watching Sparrow place his hands together and closing his eyes. He stayed like that for a moment, then began to cut his food daintily and eat with more efficiency than enjoyment. "Slow down, Sparrow. No rush, my dear boy." He beamed and Sparrow glanced up at him. "Those worthless lawmen will be there even if you take your sweet time. Enjoy this breakfast, my dear Sparrow. It's much better then the bread and cheese I'm sure you've been eating daily." He received a dark look, but felt triumph when Sparrow slowed down, eating almost thoughtfully.

"Leave?"

Sparrow nodded softly, eyes a bit sympathetic.

The, rather dimwitted, police official read over the notice again and looked up at Sparrow skeptically. "'Oo sent chu, Blade?"

Sparrow turned, pointing up the street to the manor.

"Bah, Reava." The police official handed Sparrow the notice back. "Yew can go back to tha bloody pirate an' tell him to shove off! This town needs savin' it does, and he ain't no law man!" He poked Sparrow chest, then made an uncertain noise and took his hand back when Sparrow quirked a brow. "Er, I…" He puffed out his chest. "Go back an' tell him we's lawmen of Albion, jus' like you is, Blade. We here to protect it's ciz'ens, and these here people are jus' that!"

Sparrow sighed exasperated and looked at him, pleading.

"No! I won' back down, Blade!" The man fiddled with his hat, then rammed it back onto his head. "Good day t'ye!"

Sparrow rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned away, stalking back down the street.

'Brilliant,' he thought to himself. 'While I'm out I suppose I'll go get some new gloves. Heaven knows these have seen their last days…'

He made his way quietly through the town, trying to ignore the small mass of people talking together behind him (and the occasional hooker silking 'hey hero. Want a good roll in the hay?'), eventually coming upon the half dilapidated clothing 'boutique.'

"Thank ye, Blade!" The tiny little woman waved at him and he waved over his shoulder, before bringing his hand down in front of his face and flexing the new, slightly stiff fingers of his gloves. He smiled behind the collar of his coat and looked down at Alain. Alain looked up at him and panted his approval.

"No?" Reaver frowned at the unsigned notice Sparrow handed him with distaste. "They said no? It /me/?" He scowled, looking at Sparrow. Who looked rather bored. "Said no to /you/?"

Sparrow shrugged.

"Well." He balled the parchment up and threw it into the fire crackling cheerfully in the study. "I was hoping this would be a civil affair. You have qualms against killing orderlies?" He turned and found Sparrow staring at him with a rather deadpan expression. "Yes, of course you do. Mr. halo." He sighed, tucking a hand into his pocket. "Well I suppose that means I'll have to go about killing them myse—Oh." He blinked, staring down the barrel of a Master Crossbow. "…Hm, yes, well, you make a valid argument." Reaver's eyes darted from the crossbow, up to the dark eyes that aimed it. "…Fine." He tucked his gloves away, but the bow remained. "I'll let you try your way, my /dear/ hero." They stared off for a good while, before Sparrow lowered his weapon and secured it to his back. "I'll give you one week." He heard the click of it being unsecured again. "Two." The weapon ended up at Sparrow's side. Reaver eyed it warily. "You can't beat me at a draw, Sparrow."

They ended up with their weapons pointed in each others face. "A bullet is faster than an Arrow, Sparrow." He grinned. Sparrows eyes seemed to go dark.

"One month."

Reaver stared, jaw dropping open. "….I—wh—"  
"One month, Reaver." Behind his collar, Sparrow gritted his teeth. He never understood why he liked to keep his voice to himself, but this was a case he knew it would be a trump card. "One month, and they'll be out of your hair."

Reaver continued to stare. "…You—"  
"You look surprised I can speak."

Reaver regained his dignity very fast. "…Your voice is very seductive, Sparrow." He adjusted his vest. "Fine. I'll give in."

"You'll give me a month."

"One month." Sparrow nodded in satisfaction, re-securing the crossbow on his back. "A bloody month of orderlies. Oh, heaven forbid." Reaver rested a hand on the small of his back, his other elegantly draping over his face to hide his eyes. "This will indeed be the worst month of my beautiful existence."


End file.
